


Incorporeal

by Zivvanon



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: And sweet sex, Angst, But none of it is real, Guzma has some issues, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Rough Sex, To no one's surprise, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8824609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zivvanon/pseuds/Zivvanon
Summary: “Does this not feel good?” the object of Guzma’s misery asked. He traced too-gentle fingertips over Guzma’s face, cruelly affectionate. “You can tell me if it doesn’t. It’s no fun if you don’t enjoy yourself too.”Kukui’s smile was too dazzling—it was always so damn dazzling, but this was too much—and his glasses were too crystalline and his touch felt too good. This was a dream.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A fic based on a request in /guz/. This was just supposed to be a wet dream fic, but somehow it ended up an angsty mess. Oops?

Guzma thumped his fists on his pillows and thrashed in his sheets, then gave up with a frustrated growl. No good. There was no way he’d be able to sleep while he was this riled up. Sighing, he cast his eyes restlessly around his large room, looking over the damage he’d done just an hour earlier in his rage. It hadn’t been enough to quell the unbearable fire in his gut.

He’d known that his next encounter with that damn Kukui wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, but what happened at Malie Garden that day was just straight up humiliating. Now he wished he’d insisted that the self-righteous “professor” battle Guzma himself instead of sicking that smug little punk trainer, her Z-Ring, and her unfairly strong Pokémon on him.

It hadn’t helped matters that Kukui had looked as obnoxiously handsome as ever.

Guzma smacked a hand over his face and groaned at his own thoughts. Not this again. He thought he was finally over this. 

His stupid little crush on Kukui had never caused him anything but misery since they were kids, and it became clear that they were on two very different levels. Guzma still felt crushingly pathetic whenever he remembered how much he’d looked up to Kukui, how he’d stay awake in his bed for hours thinking about the way the other boy’s warm, nearly black eyes sparkled when he laughed at some stupid bug Pokémon joke Guzma told. 

How he couldn’t forgive himself as he watched Kukui surge ahead to Kanto, potent and promising, while he stayed behind to rot on Melemele, bitter and useless.

But he wasn’t useless. Not anymore. Guzma had resurrected Team Skull from nothing but ashes, gained the mysterious and gorgeous Lusamine’s favor, and was helping to enable experiments of a scope neither he nor the rest of Alola could hope to comprehend. Yet, somehow, all of that felt as meaningless as the bronze awards gathering dust in his long-abandoned bedroom back home when he looked into Kukui’s confident eyes.

No no no. Fuck that. 

Guzma curled his fingers into fists and drew his lips back in a sneer. He was done pining after that perfect professor, and done standing in his shadow. The next time they met, Guzma would smash him for sure.

Unbidden, his feverishly angry mind conjured up an image of Kukui in front of him, on his knees, that handsome face and those dark brown eyes mooning up at him. Guzma shivered and fumbled to shove down his boxers, the only clothing he wore to bed. He grasped his half-hard cock and gave it a rough stroke as he closed his eyes and lost himself to his imagination.

Would Kukui look so high and mighty on his hands and knees on the hard floor of his own lab, bare ass presented and waiting among his oh-so-important research? Not a chance. Guzma would punish him for that pretty-boy face, that ridiculously hot body, those gold trophies, that perfect life—and Kukui would LIKE it. He’d spit on his fingers and shove two of them inside the other man without preamble, unconcerned with the hiss of pain it earned.

“C’mon, be gentle with me,” Kukui would say, grinning over his shoulder at Guzma even through his discomfort, stupidly optimistic as always. “There’s no rush, cousin. I’m not going anywhere.”

But Kukui had gone somewhere, and Guzma had no chance of following. Even if he crushed everything in his path.

Guzma saw him with her once; that Burnet. He’d stopped into a malasada shop for a snack, only to catch sight of the couple tucked into a booth in a corner, cuddled together and talking softly. He’d taken one look at Burnet’s pretty, open face, and could immediately see why Kukui loved her. She was kind where Guzma was harsh, smooth where Guzma was rough, caring where Guzma was desperate and possessive. He’d watched like some sad voyeur as Kukui fed her malasada, squished it playfully into her face, and earned a revenge swipe of cream on his own nose. It had been so disgustingly cute. They hadn’t even noticed Guzma as he grabbed his food and ducked out as fast as he could.

His fantasy twisted along with the memory. Now he was opening Kukui up with nothing but malasada cream coating his too-thick fingers, reveling in the way the smaller man gasped and clenched hard around him. Kukui was still too tight, but Guzma didn’t care. He jerked his fingers out and replaced them with the blunt head of his cock, slamming in, harsh and reckless. The force of it had Kukui sprawling out on the floor, then picking himself up again with scrabbling palms to brace against the following thrusts.

Would Kukui still have something clever to say while impaled and excruciatingly full? Would he still feel like he was above Guzma even while thrashing and moaning below him? Or would he look up at Guzma over his shoulder, eyes shining with unshed tears, and finally say—

“You won. I’m yours.”

Guzma arched off the bed with a guttural groan, coating his pumping hand as he spilled all over himself. He shook and panted through the last ripples of his climax, then angrily wiped his hand off on the sheets and shoved his softening cock back into his boxers.

‘I’m yours’? What the hell was that?

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Now that he felt drained, he just wanted to go to sleep and wake up focused and ready—with all of this behind him. This would be the last time he let Kukui have so much power over him.

Guzma turned on his side and grabbed up a pillow to press into his face. Closing his eyes and burrowing into that fluffy darkness, he willed himself to drift off.

***

“Hey hey! Are you seriously falling asleep on me? That hurts my feelings, you know.”

Guzma’s eyes snapped open in confusion when he heard that familiar voice directly above him. Sure enough, he found himself staring into kind brown eyes through a clear barrier of goggle-like glasses. Kukui was hovering over him, that earnest face just inches from his own. His usual white lab coat was now strangely patterned with tropical blue flowers and winding, bright green vines—like the obscenely tight tank top he’d used to wear when they were teenagers.

He could feel Kukui’s hand wrapped around his cock, but somehow that one hand felt like five, stroking and squeezing and pressing everywhere he was most sensitive until he was fighting not to writhe like a Salazzle in heat. 

“Does this not feel good?” the object of Guzma’s misery asked. He traced too-gentle fingertips over Guzma’s face, cruelly affectionate. “You can tell me if it doesn’t. It’s no fun if you don’t enjoy yourself too.”

Kukui’s smile was too dazzling—it was always so damn dazzling, but this was too much—and his glasses were too crystalline and his touch felt too good. This was a dream.

As a kid, Guzma had been proud of his ability to know when he was dreaming and wake himself up from it. It was the only way he’d been able to overcome the nightmares about his father that left him sobbing and terrified in their wake. But then, one time, some smug fuck had told him that you actually had your “dreams” long before you “dreamt”, and what you thought was a dream was just a memory of that brain activity. For his own sanity, Guzma declared that bullshit.

Because if this was just a memory of a dream, then he couldn’t end this right now. Kukui’s hot mouth, now inexplicably closed around his cock even as that handsome face still lingered above his, already happened—and he’d done nothing to stop it. 

Guzma tried to bring himself to yell at Kukui, to hit him, to tell him to get the fuck off him and get out of his head. But in this dream, he couldn’t speak. There was a weird pressure on his chest that pushed all the breath right out of him, yet it wasn’t painful or frightening. It was sweet, in a way; urging and soft and seeming to tell him that it was alright, he didn’t have to do anything, he was in good hands.

All thoughts of waking himself up dissolved away as Kukui’s lips and calloused fingertips flitted feather-light over every inch of his skin: his lips, stomach, hips, nipples, cock. Guzma spread his legs and panted like a whore, arching into every touch and willing them more corporeal than the teasing ghosts of his memories that they were. Of course, the memories his brain was supplying weren’t with Kukui. Who were they even with? He couldn’t remember. Not surprising; he wasn’t good at giving a damn about anything or anyone other than his own problems—and, apparently, fucking Kukui.

His messed-up mind couldn’t even come up with a decent background for this dream. One glance around and he could tell they were in his childhood room instead of Kukui’s lab or his large quarters in Team Skull’s mansion. It felt wrong and dangerous and perfect. He hoped his dream dad could hear them and was disgusted.

“Is it alright if I do this? I know you’re not used to it…”

The professor’s inquisitive fingers were suddenly brushing and prodding at his twitching hole, then pressing in, careful and steady. Guzma couldn’t feel any lube on the slim digits, yet there was none of the stretching discomfort he expected, and no distinct, prickling shame like Guzma had felt when he’d done this to himself once, trembling and pathetic in the dark privacy of his room.

Dream Kukui’s goatee scratched pleasantly against the tender skin of Guzma’s throat as he pressed warm kisses to the underside of his jaw and worked him open, slow and sweet. It felt so good and so real that Guzma wanted to scream himself hoarse with it.

His eyes rolled back to look at the ceiling, and through his haze of pleasure he registered that the walls were folding in on themselves, like that shit attempt at an origami Bounsweet he’d seen in Plumeria’s room once. The whole room seemed to be gradually pressing down, covering the two of them in a blanket of blinding, rippling, sparkling white. Guzma wondered if this was what it felt like to die, then swallowed down the urge to burst into hysterical laughter when even that thought didn’t kill his arousal.

Kukui was still moving against him—inside him?—and every roll of his hips hit something that rocked Guzma with burning ecstasy from the inside out. He twisted and gave a soundless cry, digging his fingers into the broad, tanned, now coat-less shoulders above him. His fingertips seemed to sink right through the skin to bury themselves into muscle and bone, anchoring and holding on desperately. Kukui was babbling something in his ear, unintelligible until it started to echo out and out and out into the dancing static around them.

“You’re so good, Guzma. So good, so strong, so perfect. I love you I love you I—“

Guzma’s eyes flew open in time with the first stuttered jerk of his hips, Kukui’s name on his lips. He sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and writhed through the pulses of his orgasm, clawing at the sheets. Kukui was gone, but his words still rang in Guzma’s ears for a few torturous seconds. Then they faded away, like sand through his fingers, as his brain caught up with his body. He sagged against the bed to catch his breath, exhausted and feeling defeated.

The ceiling above him was sturdy and intact with no signs of folding; the off-white popcorned surface with the mysterious blue stain telling him that he was back in his room in the mansion. Back in reality. The lumpy mattress under him was also painfully real, as was the sticky warmth now coating the front of his boxers, uncomfortably moist. The sheets beneath him were soaked in his sweat, and he tried his best to convince himself that the wet streaks drying on his face were sweat too.

What time was it? He had no idea, was too dazed to even think straight, too caught up in the feeling that he’d just gotten the most intense fuck of his life with nothing but his own damn demons touching him.

He sat up, shaky and shaken, and buried his hands in his hair, yanking at the white locks and hoping the pain would help him focus; help him forget. When that didn’t help, he pressed the heels of his hands so hard into his closed eyes that sparks erupted in the darkness behind his eyelids. He sobbed out a laugh when, of course, they seemed to form into a fuzzy image of Kukui.

“Guzma,” he murmured into the cloying silence surrounding him. “What is wrong with you...”


End file.
